


Death of a Templar

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my submission for the Dragon Age:  Asunder writing contest.  Wasn't in the top 20, but I enjoyed writing it, and I'm quite fond of Roddy now that I've given him a background.  I've always wondered about those lyrium-addled Templars like the one in front of the Chantry in Denerim, wondered what happened when they got too far along in their dementia and craving, and what a difficult process that would be to experience, slowly losing your mind to addiction.</p><p>Whether someone is a mage, a Templar, or a Warden, it seems that the life expectancy and possibility of living a normal life are pretty low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of a Templar

Ser Roderick stood uncertainly in the shade of the Gallows, book in hand, having forgotten what he was doing…

Doing, doing, doing. He’d always been a man of action, joining the most holy order of Templars at twenty. The training had been rigorous, demanding, at times difficult to stomach, but he’d never run from hard work. It was important to remember that they had a duty, to the people and the innocents in theMarches, nay, anywhere, to… to…

Remember. He remembered the day he’d taken his vows, young and strong, voice firm as he’d pledged his service to the Knight-Commander, to the Order, to Andraste herself. The other initiates had stood nearby, each kneeling and swearing their oath in turn before being presented with a suit of ceremonial armor, suitable for dress occasions and audiences. He remembered receiving it, the way the plate had shone in the midday sun, scenes of the Martyrdom of the Bride, symbols, lines of the Chant, every piece a reminder of their solemn charge and duty to the Maker. His hands had held his sword and shield, no trembling or strain, ah, those were the days. To be young again, blood coursing through your veins, heart beating strongly, lungs pumping like bellows as you struck the training dummy in time to the Knight-Captain’s barked orders- life, streaming through you like lyrium…

Lyrium, blessed, cursed lyrium. He felt the hunger even now, the craving that would not leave him day or night- it’d grown stronger over the years, the period of time that he lived without the siren’s call shortening with each dose, each month. And now he was old, old, old, so much lyrium, so many years, the unworldly blue of the metal, gritty on the tongue in its solution, the body taking in the toxic metal, transforming it into a templar’s strength, his power and shield against dark magics, a gift surely from Andraste herself. 

And yet even as he’d aged, weakened, the hunger had grown. The Knight-Commander gave him his dose, eyes full of sympathy, and he was afraid, because there was the wing of the Gallows that no one discussed, where old, lyrium-addled templars cried and begged and raved, tended by the Chantry sisters in their madness and agony. How long? How long before… before…

He’d had a family, before. A report on an apostate using dark magics had led them to Lowtown, to the kind of hovel he’d grown up in, dark, dank, dirty, and full of despair. And yet even in such places hope bloomed, men worked in the foundries or at the docks, smelting ore or unloading ships, and went home to their wives, their children, always dreaming of something better. Into that place a mage had come, and when confronted with his apostasy, given himself over to a demon. That had been the first time, although not the last, and Roderick had retched when it was over, the twisted, corrupted form of what had once resembled a man slain at their feet. It was then, truly, that he’d appreciated their calling, the lyrium in his blood guarding him, allowing him to protect the huddled people behind him from the demon’s rages and spells.

And when it was over, only three dead in the street to the foul sorcery, she’d thanked him tearfully, fresh-faced and beautiful, just a girl, and he, just a boy, barely twenty-two. He’d visited again, on one pretext or another, and they’d married the next spring. She’d borne him a boy, a child that he’d held and cradled on those occasions when he was given leave, whose hands he’d held on those first tottering steps and gap-toothed smiles. They were gone, of course, taken by the cholera that had raged through the city. 

He had wept and cursed the wretched mages, powerless against the disease except to speed its course, but she’d been with child again, and ill, and his son so young- as the water in their bodies had been forced out, they’d wept and screamed deliriously as he wiped sweaty brows, praying as he’d never prayed before in his life. And when it was over he’d been the one to weep, watching as the brother inscribed their names on the Chantry’s wall, to be read in remembrance on holy days. The Knight-Commander never mentioned his dereliction of duty, the days he’d been gone without permission or leave, the sympathetic glances and hands on his shoulder reminding him that in the Gallows, at least, he would always have a family. And he’d served them faithfully over the years… years, so many years-

Roderick looked down at his hand, marveling at the age-spots and tendons standing in sharp relief. How had he come to this? These were not his hands- his hands were young, strong, capable. He carried the armor of his Order with ease, and swung a blade with power and certainty. How had it come to this? The weakness, the trembling, the hunger, oh, Maker forgive him, the hunger for the tide of blue, metallic grit on the tongue, bitter-sweet and the strength, oh the strength it gave him. Like a sword, forged by the Maker to cut down the wicked, protect the faithful, yes, a sword-

Setting down the book he didn’t remember carrying, Roderick wandered over to the table where the smiths sold their runed goods, each piece enchanted with a Tranquil’s diligence and single-minded devotion. Picking up a sword with difficulty, he marveled at it. “I had a sword like this, once,” he said to the merchant. “Given to me by the Knight-Commander herself, for… for…” He trailed off, uncertainly. What had he been speaking of? In his hand was a sword he didn’t remember picking up, and it looked like, why, it looked like-

“Yes, Roderick,” the merchant sighed in resignation. “You had a sword just like that, that you received from the Knight-Commander for twenty-five years of service in the Order.”

“Yes!” He exclaimed, and he was glad, so glad, to remember. “And I lost it when the apostate threw fire at us, the scoundrel, following up with a wallop of ice that shattered it, but a Templar needs naught but his faith and his fists! I rolled to the ground, and then stood up, and stepped forward… forward…”

The merchant nodded wearily, the sign of a man that has heard a tale far too often but is too polite to say so. “Yes, you punched him, and silenced his evil magics, and brought him back to the Gallows. Quite a hero, Roderick.”

The older man eyed the merchant- was that sarcasm? “I did my duty for the Order and the people ofKirkwall,” he said, stiffly. The merchant put out a hand in supplication. “Of that I have no doubt, serah,” he said loudly, to appease three other Templars who were glaring at him. One did not insult a member of the Order amongst his brethren, in his home, especially not one who’d served for over forty years with distinction and honor. “Don’t forget your book,” he added helpfully, and the Templar’s brow creased.

Book? What book? Was that book on the crate his? Stepping over, he picked it up, nodding in approval at the title. Ah, yes, _Death of a Templar_ , written by Ser Andrew, the archivist back in the fourth year of the Age. He’d been an older man when Roderick had entered the order, content amongst his dry tomes and dusty scrolls, with a surprising and droll sense of humor. Had died in his bed, peacefully, avoiding the worst of the hunger and the wing of the Gallows of which no one spoke.

Eyes skimmed the familiar passages, and for a moment, clarity existed again, his finger tracing the dog-eared copy and its lines:

_The rain, now red, feeds the debt owed for actions passed. Seeking further into the earth, as the mind draws slower. What was it that drew him, himself, to this situation? The mind ebbs and parts to a lingering memory of true innocence. He entered war as a newborn enters the world, unknowing of both the horrors and light of the Maker that will save him._

_The sound of metal sliding along leather comes from above him. From the second he was born, to his soon-to-be-dying breath, his mind was processing and analyzing knowledge and experiences. It is true that he thought he could be wise in his own eyes, but only the most humble recognizes that he knows very little. Bias, speculation, and all of false pretenses make way to the sound of the sweeping steel, and then finally, his soul, as ready as his eyes dry from this final understanding, enters His promise of its purist form.*_

Roderick had argued with friends, brothers many a night over those passages, his personal favorite. Was it the apostate who found forgiveness in the blade of the Templar and the light of the Maker? Was it the Templar, defeated by evil but taken into the Maker’s arms at the moment of his death? What was the “death” of the Templar- was it in losing his life, or in that moment of losing oneself, the first time one had to end the wretched existence of another being?

To die in the Maker’s service was a worthy goal. Roderick had lived his life for the Bride, the Maker, the Knight-Commander and the people. All of the faces swam together in his mind, merging into a whole… faces, faces…

The face of a man, dark-haired, bearded, earnest, telling him about the perfidy of Ser Conrad. He’d been in a bar, a place, seedy, dirty, a few other Templars sitting at the bar and drinking, laughing. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t drinking- perhaps he had been, he couldn’t remember, hunger for the blue clawing at him, scrabbling under his skin, and then the man, the man whose face he couldn’t remember, and there was something odd about him, although Roderick hadn’t quite known what it was, what… Conrad, yes, he’d reported what he’d heard to the Knight-Commander, and a week later the man had been implicated in the theft of a shipment of black-market lyrium. Such a shame, but the Order would prevail, casting out festering corruption from within and from without.

Setting down the book that he didn’t remember carrying, Roderick walked into the sunlight, wandering uncertainly through the courtyard, the weight of his armor heavy on an emaciated frame.

The merchant picked up the book, and casting eyes over the page, sighed. Oh, yes, to be a Templar was glorious indeed. Battles and honor and protecting the weak and dying in service to the Maker, that was what they thought they were signing up for. He glanced over at the fresh-faced recruits, then back over to the aged man who walked over to a statue in the Gallows, peering at it as if he’d never seen it before.

 _Death of a Templar_ indeed. There was more than one way to die, and no one seemed inclined to mention the forgetful, lyrium-crazed old men who disappeared one day, never to return. They did their duty, a lifetime of service and sacrifice, and if they were lucky, they died martyrs to their cause, old enough to have lived a good life, young enough to still retain their faculties. But as for the unlucky-

The merchant stood, putting the book back on the crate. He’d see about returning it to the old man, later. As the late afternoon bells announced the closing of the Gallows, he stood, stretched, and packing up his earnings, headed for the boat to the Docks, for the home and family that awaited him.

There was more than one way to die, and perhaps the worst death was to lose oneself, the mind scattered, the body enfeebled. He glanced back one last time to see the late afternoon sun bouncing off the cobblestones, surrounding the old Templar in a haze of light while he stared like a child. And for a moment the merchant swore he saw a younger man, stronger, smiling into the sun as if it were the Light of the Maker himself. Then the moment passed, leaving in its wake a confused, tired old man staring blankly into the sky.

The merchant shook his head as the boat pulled away, the gates to the Gallows closing.

Death of a Templar, indeed.

****************

*Text from _Death of a Templar_ quoted from Dragon Age 2, copyright Bioware.


End file.
